


Birthday Cake

by lone



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Birthday Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lone/pseuds/lone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Ian’s birthday and Mickey wants that cake, cake, cake, cake, cake. Yes, inspired by Rihanna’s riveting ‘Birthday Cake’ song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Cake

**Author's Note:**

> He want that cake, cake,  
> Cake, cake, cake, cake, cake  
> Cake, cake, cake, cake, cake  
> Cake, cake, cake
> 
> Ooh baby, I like it  
> You so excited  
> Don't try to hide it  
> I'mma make you my bitch
> 
> -Lyrics from the song ‘Birthday Cake’ by the ever poignant, and discrete songstress of an entire generation: Rihanna.

When it comes to birthdays in the Gallagher family you may as well consider them Jehovah's Witnesses. Any holiday that isn’t christmas that requires gift giving goes by their calendar like any other day. Sure, there’s a pause taken, a simple ‘Happy Birthday’ maybe, but nothing special. That tends to happen when there are six different birthdays to celebrate in one family that’s barely above the poverty line. 

This is why Ian doesn’t expect _anything_ for his seventeenth birthday. There’s nothing _special_ about it anyhow. Maybe when he turns eighteen he’ll do something worthwhile for his birthday, but turning seventeen is honestly no real event. Still... he does find himself wishing that ‘seventeen’ was something worth celebrating. 

He’s never had a proper birthday party before. Last year he spent the entire day working at the Kash & Grab. Linda gave him a Snicker’s bar at least... for half-off anyways. 

Ian’s pretty much used to not knowing or experiencing life like other normal kids so he tries to not dwell on these things too much. 

\--

The day begins like any other really. He wakes up. Showers, brushes his teeth, breakfast, kisses Liam on the forehead, and then goes off to work. Early afternoons are nice because people are either already at work, or are slowly getting their shit together for the day. 

Linda has the store open already, which happens sometimes when she wants to come in and do quick inventory in the early mornings, but typically Ian’s the one that has to unlock the security gate and everything. 

Ian doesn’t even get a ‘Happy Birthday’ from her. It doesn’t surprise him, but it annoys him a bit more than he’ll admit. 

\--

Mickey’s always late. He comes in at 1 p.m. (was supposed to be in at 12:30) and doesn’t even bother to acknowledge his tardiness. 

“Where’s Towelhead? She here?” Mickey asks, his eyes nervously shifting about the store.

Ian presses his lips into a fine line and sighs, “Her name is _Linda_ , you jackass.” Ian chuckles a bit with a shake of his head, “She left ten minutes ago. She knows you were late.” 

Mickey gives a noncommittal shrug and picks up a copy of ‘Guns & Ammo’ without even a glance towards Ian. 

Okay. So, Ian’s learned to not expect much from Mickey - he understands that Mickey Milkovich doesn’t change all that much. However, after having their first kiss a few weeks back, Mickey _has_ been bending a bit; but only slightly. That kiss is why Ian feels a lingering sting of disappointment when Mickey barely acknowledges Ian today, and of course he doesn’t remember Ian’s birthday. 

Like most things, Ian just shrugs it off like a true Gallagher and gets back to work. 

\--

The work drags by hopelessly slow. Maybe Ian’s distracted, but even Mickey’s usually colorful and exciting stories of life in juvie gets stale. 

Ian’s playing with a cigarette lighter when Mickey finally calls him out on it, “What, I’m not interesting enough for you anymore, Gallagher?” 

The redhead looks up from his slouched position on the counter, and straightens his back. Mickey’s staring back at him, vexation written on his face along the lines of his lips and eyes. 

“What?”

Mickey laughs, digs into his pocket and reveals a deck of cards. “Here. Let’s play Spades.” 

\--

Ian’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but being a Gallagher, he has good instincts. He knows people, and he knows that expecting certain outcomes books yourself a one-way ticket to disappointment-ville. Discontent is nothing new, but it’s always nothing he’d like to feel to be honest, regardless of his close relationship with the emotion. 

That is why he tries to swallow the disappointment of his birthday, but it’s harder this year for some reason. He remembers it being a big deal when he was a child, when his friends all had big backyard parties and got lots of gifts. But, as he grew up, all that shit didn’t matter much. At least Ian thought it didn’t. 

All he really wants today is for Mickey to say ‘Happy Birthday’. Such a simple thing really, but he _knows_ it’s not so simple for Mickey. Why Ian even allowed himself to feel let down is beyond him. 

Nonetheless, Mickey knows something’s up by the time they’ve run through their third game of Spades.

“Yo, Gallagher, what’s with the attitude today?” Mickey’s voice is cold, but there’s a shade of concern on his face that Ian catches. But then Ian wonders if he’s just seeing what he wants to see. 

The boy shrugs his shoulders as he helps to gather the cards up into a neat stack. “Nothing man. Just having a bad day or something.” 

“Oh,” Mickey says nonchalantly, pretending he doesn’t care. But, Mickey is good at that: _actually_ not caring. The fact that Ian can tell he’s pretending makes him wonder...

\--

The rest of the day lulls by and after a few bursts of high activity it’s time to close up shop. Mickey’s more cooperative than usual, listening to Ian’s requests, like helping with stocking instead of sitting and doing nothing while Ian does all the work. 

They get the shop closed and locked up quickly. Ian yanks back the security gate and locks it all up tight. He jingles the shop keys a bit and then stuffs them in his pocket before turning to Mickey. 

Milkovich is shifty eyed, biting his bottom lip when Ian faces him. 

_He’s nervous?_

“Hey. So, uh, I was thinking we could have some time together tonight,” Mickey says, gesturing his hands in the air as he articulates. 

Ian usually likes to give Mickey a hard time about moments like these when Mickey does something uncharacteristic, but he doesn’t this time.

“Sure. Whatcha have in mind?”

Mickey shrugs his shoulders, glancing across the street before downcasting his eyes. “Thought we could uh, man, you _know_ what I’m trying to say here.” 

Ian takes back the decision to not give Mickey a hard time. The boy grins, and crosses his arms. If Mickey can be stubborn, then so can Ian. 

“No Mick. I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” 

“Fuck you, Gallagher. Meet me at the old warehouse on South Halsted in fifteen. If you don’t show up, then fuck it.” Mickey stalks away, leaving Ian sufficiently smug and happy. 

\--

Ian runs home to check in. Even with all the craziness going on at home, Fiona likes for him to peek his head in for a bit before any late night excursions. To his great surprise he gets a quick birthday noogie from Lip (he’s not done that to Ian in centuries), and the rest of the Gallagher family give him quick birthday hugs (except for Carl who’s too busy setting one of Debbie’s old Barbie dolls aflame). 

The always sweet Debs baked him a huge chocolate chip cookie that turned out a little burnt on the edges, but the center is soft and delicious. He eats a few pieces and then hops in the shower.

He’s notably happier, but honestly he’s annoyed with himself for actually giving a shit about his birthday. As if it really _means_ anything! He can’t help but remember that Mickey had completely forgotten it. He shakes the thought away and finishes up his quick shower.

Ian stuffs a blanket inside his backpack, along with a small bottle of astroglide. Knowing Mickey, they’d probably end up fucking on bare concrete with only their spit to lube them up. Ian’s always the only one that thinks of these things. 

Fiona asks where he’s headed when he opens the back door. He gives her the obligatory “Out”; she doesn’t give him shit for it, for which he’s thankful. 

\--

The mid-summer night air is warm, but cooler than usual. It makes it easy to jog in. But, Ian still manages to show up ten minutes late and never hears the end of it from Mickey. 

Milkovich is waiting outside the old abandoned warehouse, just now finishing his cigarette. 

“I’m the one that’s usually late,” Mickey quips as they sneak through the back entrance, sliding under a wire fence.

“Yeah, well I had a mini-celebration at the house,” Ian says, waiting as Mickey lifts himself through a broken window before following him. 

Once they’re inside, they’re surrounded in darkness, and an eerie silence. Only the hushed, hollow sound of the traffic hums along the walls of the empty warehouse. Mickey pulls out a flashlight, bringing the beam of light to his own face, in all its cliche campfire story glory. Ian laughs at it anyway, because it’s kind of cute. Their laughter echoes through the abandoned structure.  

“So, what was the celebration for?” Mickey asks as they begin making their way up to the roof of the warehouse. 

Ian coughs, clearing his throat anxiously. “Oh, you know, nothing big. Just my birthday.” 

Mickey stops and turns around, “Shit. I had no idea it was today.” 

This would probably piss Ian off, but he’s too shocked to be upset. “Wow, that sounded almost like an apology.”

Mickey scoffs without bothering to give more than that in his response. 

“I told you last week, you know.”

Mickey shrugs his shoulders and keeps on forward. “Am I supposed to remember every little fucking thing you tell me?” 

Ian wants to point out that this isn’t just any “little thing”, but he remembers that birthdays aren’t really much of an event in the Milkovich home, so he keeps silent. 

They finally reach the roof, bathed in moonlight and a thin breeze. Mickey tucks the flashlight back into his pocket. 

“Over here,” Mickey says, cocking his head over to a corner. 

Ian follows behind, rambling on about Debbie’s birthday cookie, though he can tell Mickey’s not really listening. They turn a corner and Ian stops, his hand squeezing the strap of his backpack. 

“Mickey?” 

In front of him lays a small cot with a thick, blue duvet laid across it. Beside the bed sets a small cardboard box on top of a red milk crate that probably came from the Kash & Grab. Ian’s heart stops and suddenly the bones in his legs turn to rubber. 

Ian looks over to Mickey who is insanely cute with a bashful expression written all over his face. 

“What’s going on? What’s this?” Ian asks, laughing nervously as the butterflies swim up through his throat. 

Mickey shrugs and moves forward, flopping atop the makeshift bed. “Thought I’d do something kinda special for your birthday.” 

Ian wobbles forwards and sinks to his knees in front of the cardboard box. “You actually remembered?”

Mickey laughs, a hint of nervousness singing along the chuckles. “You sound surprised.” The moonlight dances across his features and Mickey’s grin takes Ian’s breath away. 

This is the most romantic thing Ian’s ever seen in the history of anything. 

“Open it.”

Ian can barely take his eyes away from Mickey, but he manages it. He carefully peels the box open with shaky, fucking love sick fingers, revealing a small homemade birthday cake. Against sky blue icing Ian can barely make out the words: Happy Birthday Firecroth. 

“I forgot the ‘c’ in ‘Firecrotch’ but didn’t feel like fixing it,” Mickey explains. 

Ian laughs, shaking his head. Completely Mickey’s style. “I love it. It’s perfect, really.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but he moves up from the cot and reveals two number candles in his hand; a one, and a seven. He sticks them into the center of the cake.

_He even remembered the fucking candles!_

Ian’s mesmerised, smiling so fucking big he probably looks like the Joker. 

“Shut up,” Mickey says, giving Ian a dark look, yet it has little to no bite at all. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“I know what you’re thinking about saying though.” Mickey fishes for the lighter in his pocket and lights the candles, the yellow light glowing on their faces.

Ian wants to kiss Mickey so fucking bad right now. 

“What the hell are you staring at? Make a damn wish. I’ve been wanting to eat this cake all day.” 

Ian grins and makes his wish even though its already partly come true. 

\--

The cake is better than Ian expects, though it honestly could be the worst cake he’s ever tasted, there’s no telling for sure; the hearts clouding his vision won’t make him see anything wrong with today. They eat together in a comfortable silence, giving each other small, too romantic glances, though Mickey seems content on keeping his eyes down on his piece of cake after catching each other’s gazes too often. 

“When did you do this?” Ian asks. 

“Early as fuck this morning when everyone was asleep.” 

Ian’s face warms with ridiculous affection for the boy sitting across from him. “When the hell did you learn to bake?” 

“It’s a fucking box cake with pre-made icing. Nothing special, so don’t make a big deal out of it.” 

Ian grins around a mouthful of cake, chewing quickly, swallowing before saying, “It’s special because _you_ made it.” 

“This is a one time thing. Don’t expect this shit all the time,” Mickey says after a while, raising an eyebrow that reads: Do I make myself clear?

Ian giggles, nodding. “I know.” His gaze drops to the other boy’s lips and it makes his cock twitch in his jeans, thinking about those same lips wrapping around his dick. 

The redhead scoops up a glob of icing on his index finger and advances on Mickey swiftly. 

“Hey, come here,” Ian says, grinning mischievously. 

“Fuck off!” Mickey shouts, throwing his hands up when he realizes what Ian’s doing. But, it’s too late. Ian tries to push his icing covered finger into Mickey’s mouth, but he misses the opening, instead catching the boy’s cheek. The blue icing smears deliciously across; Ian pushes forward, placing his mouth there to lick the sweet confection off. 

“Get the fuck off of me, Ian!” 

The younger boy pauses, moving back momentarily to look into Mickey’s light blue eyes. “You just called me by my first name.” 

“Yeah, so?”

“You never call me Ian. It’s always ‘Gallagher’,” Ian elaborates, still not moving from his dominant position atop of Mickey. 

Mickey and Ian are matched in strength, but Ian’s taller.

“Whatever, _Gallagher_! All I know is that you better get the hell off of me if you wanna still have two testicles tomorrow.” 

“And what would you do without me to fuck you? Hmm?” Ian presses his hard-on into Mickey’s abs. A quick jolt of lust flashes across Mickey’s face and Ian eats it up. 

“I’ll just find someone else,” Mickey tries to sound confident, but the words come out in a shuddering tumble. 

No one else ever gets to see this version of Mickey. Ian wishes he could video tape the moment.

“I doubt it.” Ian thrust forward, easing his grip only slightly. He can already feel Mickey’s resistance fading. 

Watching Mickey give in is like watching a really good drama unfold. Ian can no longer hold back the urge to kiss the bastard, so he does it, with or without Mickey’s consent. 

Thankfully Mickey doesn’t seem to object. 

The kiss is lined with the taste of tobacco and birthday cake - an interesting blend of sweet and smoke. The only thing more delicious is the tiny grunts bubbling in the back of Mickey’s throat. 

Ian swallows it all. 

“You gave me a slice of your cake. How about I give you a slice of mine,” Ian delivers the line with the appropriate level of cheese that makes Mickey’s eyes roll right before he twists his own body until he’s laying on his stomach, laughing. 

Ian unzips his pants after grabbing the lube from his backpack. He only pushes his jeans down to his knees. Too many close calls teaches you to never get fully undressed when you’re fucking on the downlow. 

The boy squeezes a healthy glob of lube onto his achingly hard cock and squirts a good amount on Mickey’s entrance.

Mickey eases his jeans further down his legs before dipping his back, arching his ass in the air. 

“A bit lower,” Ian whispers, placing a lube slicked hand on the boy’s lower back. 

Milkovich spreads his legs wider and looks over his shoulder, waiting as Ian shifts closer on his knees and mounts him. 

The first thrust is always deliciously snug. It’s like good music, the way pleasure dances along his cock, a note for each and every subtle squeeze from Mickey. Ian slides inside slowly, enjoying the careful and steady approach. He pushes forward until all of his inches are submerged and Mickey’s quivering like a bitch in heat. 

Times like these Ian wishes Mickey was vocal during sex. 

Grunts and half-committal moans are good enough though, and he gets plenty of those once Mickey becomes looser and starts to accommodate the other boy’s larger than average girth. Ian leans forward, his hands on Mickey’s hips as he thirsts quickly, jabbing his lover right where he knows he likes it. He tests a few kisses along Mickey’s pale back, feeling small goosebumps raise. The boy doesn’t protest, so Ian continues, kissing, licking and then biting the bit of fat on Mickey’s shoulder. 

He fucks Mickey like this, insane heat surrounding Ian’s cock, milking him with each and every thrust forward. With a shaking hand, Ian reaches down and wraps his fingers around Mickey’s. He helps him jerk off, moving Mickey’s fisted hand back and forward along the hardened manhood. 

“Fuck!” Mickey breathes out. 

That means he’s close. 

Ian pumps faster, dipping his face into Mickey’s dark, black hair, the smell of cigarettes and Irish Spring lingering there. Ian humorously recalls the time he had to explain the importance of good hygiene to Mickey. He starts thinking of all the little things, and now the big ones, like getting a kiss, or maybe the birthday cake. When Ian really thinks about it, Mickey’s been changing a lot more than he gives the boy credit for. 

When Ian spills into him, Mickey comes too. They sit there in their doggy style position, letting Ian’s seed slip deeper - Mickey’s cock throbbing healthily in his hand. Ian’s breathing on Mickey’s back, hot and moist, but Milkovich doesn’t move. 

Finally they collapse against the cot. They don’t even bother lifting their pants up for a while. 

\-- 

All zipped up and sated, they eat more cake and smoke really good weed under the nightsky; the stars above are dimmed - faded with light pollution, but to Ian they’re the brightest they’ve ever been. 

Ian gives Mickey a cheeky smile before placing a quick, wet kiss on his lips. Mickey doesn’t resist or flinch this time. He even grins back and takes a heavy puff of their joint. 

“Happy Birthday, faggot,” Mickey says, passing the joint over. 

“Fuck you,” Ian quips, chuckling.

Birthdays have never been anything like this. Ian can only hope for something as amazing for next year. But he keeps the hoping and dreaming to a minimum, opting to enjoy the steady hum of the busy car traffic below and the soft sigh of his lover sitting beside him.

He can’t recall a happier birthday. 

The End

 


End file.
